Rules of the Game
by serenitysea
Summary: Set after Breaking Point. Sark visits Sydney after she returns home. Sarkney.


RULES OF THE GAME  
  
A/N: I'm writing this off the top of my head. The idea is coming from somewhere, obviously, but that's all I know. This is written for SD-1's Sarkney challenge. The requirements are below. I'm writing this because there was no Sarkney in the last episode, because I have three WIP's that I love, but want to take a refreshing one-parter break from, and because, hell, it's Sarkney. Do you need more incentive than that? Also--this is partially inspired by SD-1 user Sweet Blazin's comment which was (and yes, I'm quoting it) ***"Having Sark turn Syd over to Lauren didn't really affect Sarkney for me. He's done stuff like this before, like how he tried to kill Syd with the rocket launcher in Cipher. Only this time more directly. The way I see it, Sark thinks Syd is capable of taking care of herself, and he'll do his job, but it won't stop him from being interested in her."***  
  
Requirements:  
  
Must be Sarkney Rating is not an issue. Must be a stand-alone. Must be at least 3000 words. Has to take place after an episode. A deal must be made somewhere in the fic. A letter much be received by one of the parties.  
  
To fill the requirements:  
  
This is so obviously taken care of. This is my ship. I write nothing else. PG-13, as always, and just in case. Of course. It is 4,183, to be exact. Takes place after Breaking Point because I was so sad there was not even a MENTION of Sark, much less screen time. Done. Sydney mentions SpyDaddy making a deal with Sloane. And done.  
  
Here we go.  
  
* * *  
  
He was cold. And wet. The lovely LA that everyone praised, for the sun and the sky, really was overshadowed by the frequent monsoon-like rainstorms they got just as frequently. One thing he'd never understand about Americans and their country was their need to cram as many as possible into a space.  
  
Take elevators, for example. At the top of every elevator, there is a sign that clearly states just how many people are allowed inside. And yet, it amazes him, every time he is pushed back into a corner, to make room for the half dozen or so people who are clearly overriding that law.  
  
So while it no longer surprises him that Sydney Bristow has more than the usual flair for breaking many laws of the same country she vows to love and protect, it really should have been something he'd seen coming.  
  
They train them to do so in elevators. Who would have thought that subconscious instruction began in such a place? No wonder they have all sorts of crazy loons shooting farm animals for fun, regardless of many firearm laws. If you were an American, the best way to show it would be by seeing how many laws you could break in one sitting.  
  
A few raindrops cleared his wool beanie to slither down the back of his shirt and he grimaced. It was easy to be so judgmental when you were from another country and could therefore disdainfully look down on neighboring countries without guilt.  
  
Of course, it was another thing entirely to do so and be breaking many of those very same laws yourself.  
  
It was something he had to briefly consider as he sat on the wet steps of Sydney Bristow's apartment. After all, he was a wanted man in these parts. And while it would be a flattering spin to put on it he wasn't personally wanted at all by the aforementioned woman.  
  
But for some unexplainable reason, he'd found himself on a plane, after hearing of her capture. The plane had led to the States. Which had then led to a rental car--speedy, but efficient, easily able to outrun the authorities, and safely parked two blocks away--which had be followed to a brisk walk in the rain, up to her front steps.  
  
Of course, she wasn't home yet.  
  
No.  
  
Right now, she was probably getting off a helicopter somewhere in the bowels of California, to be driven to her house by someone else--mostly likely her father--before she got home.  
  
After all, they couldn't very well advertise that Arvin Sloane had been the helping hand in her extraction, now could they?  
  
He was fortunate the Covenant kept such close tabs on its personnel.  
  
Hoping the same rules didn't apply to him as well; he tugged the collar of his turtleneck even higher and leaned back against her door. Not much longer now.  
  
And he still had to prepare what he was going to say.  
  
* * *  
  
Sydney tiredly waved goodbye to her father, who was sitting in his sedan at the curb. He flashed the lights once and pulled away. Had circumstances been different, she was certain he would have waited for her to get inside, perhaps even going so far as to helping her in and getting her settled. But things had taken a dangerous turn for Jack Bristow in the past 48 hours and he needed all the time he could get to set up the proper alibi.  
  
Besides. She was a spy. She could always pick the lock.  
  
She reached into her pocket for her key and suddenly remembered that when the NSC had taken her into custody, they'd confiscated her personal belongings. Even so, the key in her hand then had been the key to Julia Thorne's apartment. Sydney Bristow hadn't shown her face around these parts for at least a week.  
  
There was always the prospect of asking Weiss for his spare key, but that would alert the NSC-watching-CIA team that she was back, and while she believed they were watching for her, maybe the long black wig would throw them all off.  
  
She was supposed to be in federal custody, after all.  
  
Sydney sighed, and a few strands of dark hair flopped about at her action. Looked like she was going to have to pick the lock after all.  
  
Something cold and round slammed into her back and she stiffened.  
  
"Agent Bristow. So nice of you to come home. There are a few things we need to discuss, so inside, if you don't mind."  
  
She knew that cocky British tone and turned her neck to see his eyes glittering down at her darkly. "I do mind, actually." When he looked unimpressed at her statement, she added, "And I don't have a key."  
  
He muttered something darkly under his breath. She couldn't quite make it out over the rain but thought she heard the words, "Brainless," "woman," and "bloody rain." Moments later, the door in front of them gave, and she looked down to see an expert lock-pick tool in the keyhole.  
  
Sydney glared at him accusingly. He put his free hand up in protest. "What? Did you honestly want to stay out in that wet rain any longer? Catch." He tossed something small and black at her.  
  
It was still slick from outside and she nearly fumbled it twice before realizing what it was. "A hairdryer? You put a hairdryer against my back?"  
  
He smirked, pocketing his tools and letting the door slam closed behind him. "I could have put other things against your back, Miss Bristow. But I sincerely doubt that said items would have garnered the same results."  
  
Typical Sark statement that could be taken any number of ways.  
  
Sydney threw the hairdryer back at his chest, hard, and he caught it just before impact. She set her coat and bag down by the couch and sat on the arm to pry the dark wig of hair off her. It revealed her usual shining brown that fell down and tumbled about right at her shoulders, which Sark noted appreciatively. She could definitely pull off other colors, but really looked best as a brunette.  
  
"Was there something you needed, Sark, or did you want me to make up the spare bed for you?"  
  
Sark laughed shortly, following her trail of discarded items to where she was sitting. He stood before her, setting the dryer on the coffee table gently. "I believe you just came back from a rather exhaustive interrogation."  
  
"Yeah. An interrogation *you* set into motion."  
  
He showed no remorse. "I have always believed you an exceptional agent in the field of espionage, more than capable of handling whatever situation arose. What I did merely put the issue into the open, and allowed things to boil over, instead of this pansy-like dance you all have been doing since you've returned from your. . . shall we say--hiatus?"  
  
"Your brilliant move, as you've come to think of it," she spat furiously, her drenched-through hair flapping against her shoulders quite dramatically, "nearly got me killed. Not to mention tortured beyond all sense of rational thought--and forced my father to cut a deal with Sloane."  
  
Sark stared at her curiously. "Your father realigned himself with Sloane? Why?"  
  
She rolled her eyes so sharply he feared they would simply tumble right out of her head. "Because he loves me. But I guess that's a concept you can't quite grasp, Sark."  
  
The injured silence that followed her statement echoed off the walls of the near-pristine apartment and resounded in her ears like a taunting child from years past. "I'm sorry," Sydney quietly remarked, suddenly braiding her hair back, getting it away from her face. "That was uncalled for."  
  
He wondered why she would do this, why she'd so willingly allow him to see her face. Everyone in their business knew that she had an abominable poker face. Perhaps it was her way of apologizing. For what it was worth, if he had long hair, he'd never let anyone see his face. Too much practice went into being impenetrable. Imagine not having to work on that ever again.  
  
No matter. He'd never let his hair grow long again. It was a link to his past, during her missing two years, and something he didn't want to remember.  
  
"We are getting off the subject matter here. I didn't come to hear you wax guilt for something you don't remember, and I doubt any form of apology for getting those pictures to Ms. Reed would be accepted at this point," he paused as she got up from the couch to move into the kitchen. Sark stood and continued, "and that is not why I'm here at all. I'm here to- -Sydney, what on earth are you doing?"  
  
She slammed the teakettle on the stove and lit the burner. "I am trying to get past the fact that there is a wanted terrorist in my house and I can't shoot him because the NSC came in and confiscated my guns."  
  
Well, that explained why she hadn't tried to shoot him.  
  
"I take it you don't like them very much." At her look, he clarified, "The NSC."  
  
Again, with the eye rolling. "If there was one person I wanted to shoot more than Sloane, and you at specific times, like when you left me in that ice cave--"  
  
"--Hold a grudge, much?"  
  
"--And my mother, for just pulling a Houdini, and disappearing, it's Lindsay. I can't *stand* him. And Lauren's just as bad, always doing what he says. God, if they pooled their brains together for one second, maybe, just maybe, they would get something worthwhile accomplished! All he does is glare and shoot dirty looks to his lackeys, so if someone has to take the fall for an op gone bad, they all jump to be the first."  
  
Sydney stopped abruptly, looking shocked and no doubt wondering where that outburst of emotion had come from. He couldn't tell what bothered her more-- the fact that she had just let go, or that he'd been there to witness it.  
  
"Well," he carefully walked around the breakfast bar and turned off the flame under the wailing teapot. "That answers that question."  
  
She sighed, watching as he looked around for mugs and appropriate flavors to put in their drinks. "Second cabinet to your right, first shelf."  
  
"Ah," he grabbed two green mugs and frowned briefly at the 'Republic of Tea' tea canisters that were lined up like soldiers at bay. He plucked one at random, dropped one in each cup, and hoped for the best. When she reached for her mug, he batted her hand aside. "Patience, Sydney. I very much doubt you know how to make a proper cuppa."  
  
Sydney groaned and walked back into the living room, falling onto the couch. Sark followed shortly after, carrying the cups, looking inordinately pleased with himself. He held one out to her and she grabbed it, immediately taking a sip--and burning her tongue.  
  
From behind his cup, he pulled a Ziploc bag of ice and handed it to her. "Had a feeling you might do that."  
  
She said nothing and continued to glare while letting the ice do its job.  
  
"As I was saying before, I'm not here to kill you or demand some information with the threat of immeasurable pain. I've actually come to see how you are."  
  
Sydney was proud of the fact that she waited five full seconds before spewing out the ice cubes in a laugh. They bounced off his chest and fell to the floor, where they were left to melt.  
  
As she began a ride of hysterical laughter, Sark honestly questioned the woman's sanity and whether or not her father had slipped her something to help her sleep better. He warily leaned over and attempted to peer down into her line of vision. "Sydney? Are you--"  
  
That was as far as he got, for the world was turned upside down without any warning. Sydney rested atop him with her hands gripping his arms tightly, leaning down so closely, he could feel her chest brush against his. Her one leg draped over his hip and down the side of the couch while the other was propped up and resting next to his left rib.  
  
"Tell me what the hell you're up to Sark, because mortal enemies don't just up and pay social visits with hair accessories."  
  
His brow lifted incredulously, as he attempted to shift into a more comfortable position. "You're really not going to let that go, are you?"  
  
Her thighs squeezed him tightly. "Tell me."  
  
She certainly had definition all over her body, that was for sure. He made no attempt to answer her, and was currently more engrossed in the way her mussed hair sprang out in haphazard pieces, the fierce glow in her eyes and the bright color in her cheeks. She probably hadn't slept in days, and was wearing a chunky knit sweater several sizes too big for her, but it looked almost cute. No. That wasn't the right word to describe her.  
  
Aware of it or not, she looked absolutely stunning.  
  
Unnerved by his intense scrutiny, her grip on his hands loosened and he managed to slip one free before she could stop him. He lifted it to her hair and tucked it back, in a move he'd seen so many times before. She stiffened and her breathing hitched, even as she struggled to keep glaring at him.  
  
It wasn't working and they both knew it. Her hold slowly lessened until he thought it a good time to chance sitting up and wound up with a lapful of Sydney Bristow. Her hair tickled his nose.  
  
She made no endeavors to change their position, or even get out of his lap. In fact, when he heard nothing from her for several moments, he became concerned. With a tenderness that shocked them both, he gently turned her chin towards him and thumbed away a few silent teardrops that hung from her cheeks like forgotten Christmas ornaments.  
  
Sark tilted his head again, hoping to catch her eye. "Sydney?" This whole encounter was becoming more and more foreign to him.  
  
She choked on a laugh and wiped her face. "This is unbelievable. Sark, you sent me to the seventh pit of hell and I came home and find you here wanting to talk it out. It's surreal."  
  
He bit of a grin crept onto his face. "Unnerving, to be sure. But fun, don't you think?"  
  
She moved and suddenly the only thing he could see was her eyes. Brandy- colored and glowing, seeming to take up her entire face, while they shimmered so brightly he swore he could see his reflection in them.  
  
He said nothing and held his breath as she ran a tentative finger over his mouth, taking precious gentle care with the crooked line of his lower lip, almost fascinated by the structure of it.  
  
"How is it, that cool insults and left-handed compliments," she traced the sharp contour of his cheekbones, "Can so easily escape from these very lips, while I've never once seen you even think about using them for what they are designed?"  
  
"And what," Sark managed around a hitched breath, "would that be?"  
  
Sydney paused and gave him a sad, reluctant smile. "This," she murmured, settling her lips against his. It was a shocking sensation for both, as they grew accustomed to the feel of a new person so close to their space and inner barriers that were usually constructed against the tenderness and vulnerability of such an action.  
  
He reached up and tangled his fingers in her braid, loving the way her smooth hair felt and totally covered his hand, while keeping his mind focused on her face, and making sure she wasn't completely repulsed by the idea of kissing him.  
  
She pulled back eventually, resting her forehead against his. "I don't know where that came from," she breathed, "but I'm not sorry for letting it happen. Are you?"  
  
"No." His voice was low and he hoarsely repeated, "Not at all."  
  
Slowly, he untangled his hand from her hair and settled for cupping her cheek. "I think it's time you got some rest."  
  
Her eyes, which had contentedly closed at his caress, flew open in indignation. He bit his lip and whispered, "Please, Sydney."  
  
She knew any attempts to recapture the moment, what had just happened between them, would be met with failure. Chalk it up to a fluke--even though no man had ever left her so completely without any common sense in such a short time--but they both knew it had the potential to get dangerous fast.  
  
There was a wisp of unaccountable openness between them now, and she didn't know what was stranger: that Sark was actually asking for something, and saying please, or that she was agreeing with him.  
  
"Okay." She whispered quietly, wishing that she wasn't Sydney Bristow, CIA Agent Extraordinaire and that he wasn't Sark, all around bad guy with a deadly aim and even more fatal glare. That just once, she could be simply Sydney and he could simply be Sark. A guy. A girl. Together.  
  
"This is crazy, you know," she started, as he got up from the couch, with her firmly in his arms. He headed for her bedroom and set her gently on the bed, pulling down the covers and settling her inside.  
  
"I know," he added, kissing the top of her nose. "Go to sleep."  
  
She wanted to ask him if he would be there when she woke up. If he was going to stay for a day or two and help sort out all these indefinable and strange feelings she now how. If the next time they met, it would be in a safe place, or with a team of armed men behind them. She wanted to, but she couldn't.  
  
It wasn't until he came back, sipping his cup of tea, while sitting on the bed next to her, that she slowly fell asleep.  
  
Sark watched the moonlight play on the shadows of her face and brushed her hair back gently. "Dear god," he softly whispered, unable to tear his gaze away. "What have we gotten into?"  
  
* * *  
  
The next time she woke up, sunlight was poking her in the eye. Which was strange, because in her room, she always slept with the blinds closed. Groggily, she looked up and saw a ceiling fan.  
  
"That's odd. I don't remember getting a fan put in."  
  
She reached for the glass of water that she always kept at her beside. It wasn't there. In fact, the entire room was different. What the hell?  
  
It came rushing back very painfully.  
  
NSC. Lindsay. Sloane. Dad. Getting free. Coming home. Sark. Kissing Sark. Falling asleep next to Sark.  
  
"Oh my god. What did I do?"  
  
She scrambled to her feet and ran out of the lightly decorated room, only to be assaulted by the designs of a house she'd never before seen in her life. Taking account of her predicament, she tried to focus on something that would help her identify her surroundings.  
  
There were two windows.  
  
And snow.  
  
Outside, there was snow.  
  
She lived in LA. Where it never snowed.  
  
Her eyes fell on a crisp piece of paper sitting innocently on a table and she pounced on it.  
  
~My very dear Agent Bristow,  
  
Do us both a favor and wipe that shocked look off your face. We both know better than that, and frankly, it's a bit insulting. You are in a safe house, outside of LA. It belonged to your mother, and I was given explicit instructions to bring you here after administering a sedative. Thankfully, last night and your past few days' ordeal handled that job nicely for me. Once your head hit the pillow, you were out. There was no rousing you. So I picked you up and carried you to my car--which was, in case you're wondering--two blocks away. A feat of strength on my part, no doubt. You were the most cooperative captive I've ever laid eyes on. Getting you inside after that was merely five minutes more of my time.  
  
I'd suggest that you use this time to recover, and brace yourself for what's about to come. There is no question in my mind that after such a failed attempt with your government's process of releasing your memories, you want to try for yourself. A word to the wise, Sydney: Don't.  
  
It will all come out eventually.  
  
Other than that, enjoy your time. I believe there are a few novels you might wish to catch up on stacked over by the table. There is food in the refrigerator and ingredients to make the most of your stay, should you wish to cook. And before you resort to any type of suicidal measures, the key to getting out of here is in the windowsill, by the door.  
  
I could have just let you stumble upon it by yourself, but as I said before, I regard your skills highly as an agent, and as a person. Who would know your limits better than yourself? If you believe you're ready to walk out that door right now, by all means, go ahead. Obviously, there is no one here to stop you.  
  
But perhaps it might be prudent to make the most of this and simply be in your own company.  
  
Remember: There is no need to put on a mask when those needing to be met with such masks are not present.  
  
You've been thrown into a new game here, Sydney, and have had to learn it by yourself. All I've done is clarify the rules.~  
  
And the note ended there quite abruptly. She frowned, clutching both it and the safe house key in her palm tightly. As soon as she'd found the note, and read the line about the key, her foot was already out the door. But she'd pushed herself to read the rest, written so clearly in his style of persuasion, she was almost finding herself agreeing with him.  
  
Perhaps it would be good for her to take a break, unwind. She hadn't gone through the stress of picking a place out and getting the means to travel there. No one had broken any federal laws to ship her out of the country. Sark had even told her where she was. (And, okay, so he'd probably broken a few laws, but he wouldn't be Sark if he hadn't.)  
  
She reached for a bottle of red wine that had been sitting next to the note.  
  
"Chateau Petruse," Sydney read aloud. She uncorked it and sniffed. "Smells good."  
  
While sipping at her glass of Petruse, she set a pot of water onto boil. Her stomach told her it was lunchtime, though her brain wanted breakfast, and she was going to make a good red sauce to go with the merlot. She had the day to decide her long she was going to spend her. And there were no boundaries confining her.  
  
Sydney poured in the long spaghetti noodles and let a smile creep onto her face.  
  
The day was young, yet.  
  
And Sark couldn't have gotten very far along. He'd have to stay until she'd gotten up, to report to. whomever he was reporting to. Her mother? More questions for another day. She set the flame to simmer, and slipped out the front door.  
  
"Oh, Sark?" She saw a pair of footsteps in the snow winding down the driveway. They looked fresh. Her gaze traveled down the path, to a navy blue sportscar, where a certain blonde assassin was currently trying to get in unnoticed.  
  
She would have yelled down to him, but at that precise moment, he looked up and locked eyes with her. They stayed like that for what seemed like minutes until she realized he was waiting for her move.  
  
Sydney knew she could ask him back up. There were questions, on both sides. So many, in fact, they nearly threatened to overwhelm her and keep her from seeing the other side of the story. Or she could let him go. Like he had planned. Not necessarily the coward's way out, but giving them both the essential space they needed.  
  
Suddenly feeling lighthearted, she grinned at him. He stared at her, slightly astonished, and helpless to do anything and she lifted her hand and blew him a big smacking kiss. Caught up in the moment, he let a smile drift onto his face as well, and lifted his free hand up. She watched as his seemingly reached for something out of the air and let his fingers close around it, then patted it close to his heart.  
  
He'd caught her kiss.  
  
Sark started the car and tooted the horn once, before recklessly driving away. Sydney giggled and made her way back to the house.  
  
He was still a bad guy. But god, he was fun.  
  
* * *  
  
And survey says?? 


End file.
